


Blind Dates and Prejudice

by purplesummer91



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-21 07:18:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4820231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesummer91/pseuds/purplesummer91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day AU loosely based on Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice"<br/>A very resilient Gaby forces a very reluctant Napoleon to go on a blind date with her friend Illya, who just moved to New York. Napoleon hopes he might get some good sex out of it, but is immediately put off by Illya's indifference, and his coldness bordering on rudeness. When it becomes clear that Illya really dislikes Napoleon, and no sex will ever happen, Napoleon is impatient to just forget that awful date ever happened, forget Illya Kuryakin's inexplicable coldness, and forget his deep blue eyes.<br/>Unfortunately, destiny (and Gaby) has different plans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Blind Date

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfiction for this fandom!  
> I went to see the movie twice and I was instantly obsessed. So, of course, I had to write something. Thoughts of Napoleon as Lizzy Bennet, and most importantly of Illya as Mr. Darcy, started floating in my head, and this is the result.  
> I hope you guys enjoy it!  
> <3

“Come _on,_ Solo. You're being ridiculous.”

Napoleon sighed, doing his best to ignore Gaby's stern glare, knowing it wasn't going to disappear anytime soon. His best friend hated when things didn't go her way, and unfortunately for Napoleon, she could be very, very resilient.

“Gaby, for the millionth time. I don't do blind dates,” he said, meeting her eyes, but almost immediately looking away. “I barely do dates at all.”

“And you're just gonna keep sleeping your way through all the singles in New York City?” she asked, and she was definitely very frustrated. That didn't bode well for Napoleon.

Still, because he had no instinct of self-preservation whatsoever, he shrugged and downed the last of his whiskey, smiling over at the bartender and giving her a wink, which she returned. Gaby kicked him under the table, hard.

“ _Ouch_!”

“ _Napoleon Solo,_ ” she hissed, and that was when Napoleon knew he was really in trouble. Gaby using his first name could only mean one thing: disaster. “I'm asking this one, and only _one_ more time. And you're going to say yes, or so help me-”

“Gaby-”

“Shut up,” Gaby said, her gaze murderous as she looked at Napoleon. “My old friend Illya just moved to New York. He's nice, he's hot, and he's single. And you're going to take him on a date. And you're going to _have fun_ , and be a perfect gentleman for him, understood?”

Napoleon frowned and pouted in a way that was definitely not sexy. He hoped the bartender wasn't looking at him right now. He glanced at her, and thankfully, she was busy dealing with a few customers at the counter.

“If this Illya is so hot, and nice and everything, why don't _you_ take him out on a date?”

Gaby didn't even bat an eye.

“Been there, done that,” she said, and Napoleon's eyes widened.

“You're setting me up with your ex-boyfriend? You have to be joking.”

“I'm not joking,” Gaby said, rolling her eyes. “Illya and I went on a couple of dates ages ago, it wasn't a serious relationship or anything. We only ever had sex once.”

“Only once? Ah, that certainly changes everything,” Napoleon said sarcastically. “I don't understand why I need to take your scraps.”

“Illya is not _my scraps,_ ” Gaby said, scowling at Napoleon. “I don't understand what's the problem. I'm not asking you to _marry_ him, for crying out loud. It's one date. No one will force you to go out with him again if you don't like him.”

“Somehow, I don't trust you not to try and pressure me into agreeing to a second date, or a wedding,” Napoleon said – and honestly, even Gaby had to admit he had a point. He had said no to this date at least five hundred times, in every language he knew – and he knew many – and still, here Gaby was, refusing to take no for an answer.

“Funny,” Gaby said dryly. “I won't try to pressure you into anything. In fact, I think I won't _need_ to. Because Illya is exactly your type, and you're exactly his type, and when you two get married, I'll give a speech at the reception, and the only words that will leave my mouth will be: _I told you so_.”

“Now, that sounds like someone who's not about to pressure me,” Napoleon said, raising his eyebrow.

He sighed, looking down at his now empty glass. He had a feeling there was no way he could get out of this one, because Gaby was definitely dead-set on setting him up with this Illya. And if she was really going to stop herself from pressuring him into going on a second date... well.

He had no trouble finding people to pick up himself. No trouble going on a date with someone, if he felt so inclined. He had always been quite lucky both with the ladies and the gentlemen, and it was rare for him to go back home alone after a night out. He didn't _need_ Gaby to find people for him.

But if this Illya was as attractive as she had promised he'd be... who knew? Maybe he'd be up for some fun. Maybe he was being forced into this date thing as much as Napoleon was, and they were going to laugh about it over a glass of red wine and a truffle risotto. Maybe one thing would lead to another and...

Just because Gaby had decided they would be perfect together and was already organizing their wedding didn't mean Illya wouldn't prefer a no strings attached thing like Napoleon. And Napoleon knew that saying yes to Gaby would get her off his case.

He glanced at the bartender, and saw that she was looking at him again. He wondered if Gaby would be terribly upset, if he decided to go chat her up immediately after agreeing to a date with this Illya guy. She probably would. Killjoy.

“Alright,” he said, sighing once again as he tore his eyes away from the pretty bartender. “One date.”

The triumphant look in Gaby's eyes made Napoleon wish he still had some whiskey in his glass.

 

* * *

 

The night of his blind date with Illya, Napoleon put on his best dress pants with a matching waistcoat, and of course his favorite blue shirt, because that one brought out his eyes in a really nice way – no tie tonight, he thought that might be too much. He didn't want Illya to think he was trying too hard.

Napoleon might've been forced into this thing, but still, that didn't mean he wasn't going to put some effort. Napoleon was the kind of guy who _committed_ , when he had to do something, forced or not – and besides, Gaby was going to murder him if he didn't at least put some effort into this. Not to mention, _every_ occasion was a good occasion to dress up nicely, as far as Napoleon was concerned, and who knew? Maybe this would actually be a fun night out. Maybe he and Illya were going to get along – and hopefully end the night in Napoleon's bed.

Napoleon checked himself in the mirror one last time and nodded approvingly, giving his reflection a grin before he made his way out of his apartment. Matching clothes and a winning smile. Nothing better to charm a (supposedly) handsome Russian.

Napoleon flagged down a cab, got in, and it was only a matter of minutes before he was finally in front of the restaurant where Gaby had made reservations for him and Illya – and yes, apparently her meddling wasn't limited to forcing her friends to agree to dates. She had to organize the whole thing, too.

Gaby was already there by the front door, talking to a man Napoleon presumed must be her friend.

He looked at Illya, and immediately registered three things.

First, Illya was _tall._ Napoleon wasn't a short man, at 6'1'', he had always considered himself to be rather tall. Yet, Illya had to have at least two or three inches on him – he was a freaking _giant_.

Second, Illya also happened to be just as hot as Gaby had promised he'd be, and some. Blond, with blue eyes to die for, and what was sure to be the body of a Greek statue under those clothes. Napoleon had to admit he hoped he would get to see just _how_ defined his muscles were, in a few hours.

And third, Illya was incredibly stern – and Napoleon didn't know if Gaby was talking about something or someone he didn't like much, or if that was his normal face, but he was sure most people would find him intimidating. Luckily, Napoleon wasn't most people, and he wasn't easily intimidated.

Gaby might have actually been right this time, because yes, Illya looked like he was just Napoleon's type.

It was a pity that – and that was the fourth thing Napoleon noticed – Illya didn't seem to have any sense of style at _all_. His navy turtleneck made his eyes pop at least, but... it was a _turtleneck_! And his pants and belt didn't even _match_ , and that jacket...

Oh, well. Napoleon supposed no one could be perfect.

Realizing he had been staring at Illya – who was still chatting with Gaby and didn't seem to be aware of anyone watching him – for at least a good minute, now, Napoleon put a smile on his face and made his way to where Illya and Gaby were.

“Gaby,” he called, trying to catch her attention.

Gaby turned, and smiled when she saw him.

“Solo!” she greeted him cheerfully. “We were wondering where you were – come here. So. Solo, this is my friend Illya Kuryakin. Illya, Napoleon Solo.”

“Pleasure,” Napoleon said, holding out his hand to Illya as he flashed a charming smile his way.

Illya, however, didn't seem to be in a smiling mood, and simply gave Napoleon a nod, shaking his hand briefly.

Okay then.

“Well, I'll leave you guys to it,” Gaby said, seemingly unconcerned by Illya's coldness towards Napoleon. “Have fun!”

“Bye Gaby.”

“Goodbye,” said Illya, and for the first time, Napoleon heard his voice. It was deep, and accented – and honestly? All manners of hot. Hopefully Napoleon would get Illya to warm up to him a little, because he was honestly hoping he might have a chance to hear that deep voice screaming his name in bed. Perhaps Illya was just shy.

“Shall we go then?” Napoleon said, flashing another smile to Illya and nodding towards the restaurant. His smile was not returned, but Illya nodded at the suggestion, and soon they were seated at a table, menus open in front of them.

For a while, they were silent, just looking through their menus instead of each other, until Napoleon decided to give it another try.

“They make a wonderful truffle risotto here,” he said conversationally. “You should try it. I was thinking we could share a bottle of red wine?”

Illya glanced up at Napoleon, and Napoleon's smile widened a little when their eyes met. That is, until Illya opened his mouth.

“I don't like truffles, or risotto,” he said, and Napoleon's smile instantly faded. “Or red wine,” Illya added, and Napoleon grimaced.

“Oh,” he said, trying to mask his disappointment. “Then maybe I could suggest...”

“I will get steak,” Illya said, looking back at his menu. “And water.”

“Sparkling?”

“Still.”

Of course they weren't even going to agree on that.

A small huff of laughter escaped Napoleon's lips, and Illya looked up. He raised an eyebrow at Napoleon, clearly confused, and Napoleon grinned.

“It's just a little crazy,” he said, shaking his head. “Gaby claims we're perfect for each other, and exactly each other's type, and look at us. We don't even agree on _water_. I suppose she thinks opposites attract?”

Napoleon let out another small laugh, but Illya remained serious – at this point, Napoleon wasn't even sure if Illya knew how to laugh at all.

“Is not that funny,” he said, and Napoleon rolled his eyes.

“Alright, I'm sorry, Red Peril,” he huffed.

Illya frowned, suddenly confused again.

“You are strange man, Napoleon.”

It was Napoleon's turn to frown.

“Only my mother calls me Napoleon,” he said. “Stick to Solo. Or whatever else you want.”

Illya seemed to consider Napoleon's words, before he eventually nodded solemnly.

“Okay, Cowboy.”

Napoleon's eyes widened in surprise. A nickname? Well, that was unexpected. Could it maybe be considered... a good sign? A sign that Illya was warming up to him?

...maybe.

Before Napoleon could test the waters, however, Illya flagged down a waitress, and placed their orders, and then the moment was lost, and silence fell once again.

Napoleon thought it would probably be better to be quiet, this time. Wait for Illya to make a move. But when the waitress brought their drinks and left, and Illya still didn't break the silence, the whole thing started to become frankly awkward, and Napoleon decided he should take matters into his own hands again.

“So,” he started, and Illya's eyes flashed to his own, unreadable, yet intense. “Gaby told me next to nothing about you, and I suppose she's told you next to nothing about me, too?”

Illya seemed to consider Napoleon's words for a moment, and eventually gave him a small nod.

“Gaby says you are art curator and you like art and fashion.”

“And good food! I'm actually a decent cook,” Napoleon said with a smile, glad to see that they were finally starting a proper conversation. “But yes, that's right. What about you? What do you do?”

“I am personal stylist.”

Napoleon, who had been sipping on his glass of red wine, almost chocked on it in surprise.

“You... you're a _personal stylist_?” he asked, coughing a little. Illya raised an eyebrow.

“Is what I said, yes.”

“So you like fashion?” Napoleon asked, bewildered, and before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “How do you _explain_ your clothes?”

Illya frowned deeper than he had before. Which was saying something.

“My clothes?” he repeated, looking down at himself. “My clothes are good, yes?”

Napoleon hesitated. He might not be easily intimidated, but Illya was not particularly friendly, and looked _very_ strong, and he didn't want to risk being punched for saying what he really thought about those clothes. But by God, he had to say _something._

“I mean... Dior pants with a Rabanne belt... it doesn't match!” he eventually told Illya, deciding to keep all thoughts about the jacket and _turtleneck_ for himself.

This turned out to be a good idea, because even at that small, fairly harmless comment, Illya's gaze turned downright murderous.

“It. doesn't. have. to. _match,_ ” he growled, looking horrified at Napoleon's suggestion.

Thankfully, the discussion promptly ended when Illya's steak and Napoleon's risotto arrived. The two exchanged a look, and almost immediately dove into their food – Napoleon supposed it was a good excuse as any to avoid further discussions. He certainly wasn't going to try to break the silence again, and he doubted Illya would. Illya had been cold and distant from the first moment, and hadn't even actually _tried_ to make this work. Sure, maybe Napoleon should've known better than to criticize another man's fashion choices – though really, Dior and Rabanne...! – but at least he had made some effort, and the same couldn't be said for Illya. Napoleon was upset and annoyed that his night out would not end in his bed, having hot Russian sex, and thought begrudgingly that if Illya was so dead-set on making this date horrible from the beginning, maybe he should've just flat out refused to go out with him in the first place. Alright, maybe Gaby had forced him, but that was not Napoleon's fault! It was unfair of Illya to take it out on him.

Neither of them had said another word to each other by the time they were done eating, and Napoleon excused himself to go to the toilet. To think he'd had such high hopes for tonight...

He sighed and splashed some water on his face, thankful to be away from Illya, at least for the time being. He wasn't going to get a dessert, and hoped Illya wouldn't either. So they could just pay and go their separate ways, and perhaps Napoleon would have time to pick up someone else, so tonight wouldn't be completely wasted, and Napoleon would still get some hot sex. Not Russian, though, regrettably.

Napoleon made his way back to the table, but stopped in his tracks when he saw that Illya was on the phone with someone. He was just about to go back to the toilet for another minute, just to give Illya some privacy, or maybe make his presence known – but when he realized Illya was talking about him, he gave in, and just resolved to eavesdrop.

“...on date. ...no, is blind date. Friend of a friend. ...no, it is very bad date. ...because he is cocky, he criticised my fashion style while wearing a _waistcoat_ , and I think he was even looking at waitress before. ...it is no disturb. I'll see you soon.”

Napoleon frowned deeply, and thought that, well, that was a little unfair. Illya had been distant and cold to the point of rudeness, and Napoleon had at least _tried_. And yes, their waitress was very pretty, so what? Napoleon hadn't even flirted with her or anything. And even if he had, what did Illya care, since he clearly disliked Napoleon, and could not be less interested if he tried?

_And what was wrong with his waistcoat anyway?!_

Scowling, Napoleon walked back to the table and sat down, not even trying to hide his discontent. Illya didn't even seem to notice.

“We should probably ask for the check,” Napoleon said dryly.

“I already paid,” Illya replied, standing as he looked at Napoleon. “I have to go. Client called. She has unexpected brunch in the morning and needs advice.”

Napoleon just shrugged, not acknowledging the fact that Illya had paid the bill – he was not about to thank him, much less offer to pay for half of it. Not after he had been treated so unfairly.

“Sure. I suppose I'll see you around,” he said, staring at Illya. “Then again, it'd probably be _cocky_ of me to presume you'll want to see me again after tonight, right Peril?”

Illya met Napoleon's eyes for a long moment, and Napoleon was satisfied to see a hint of embarrassment in his gaze when he realized Napoleon must've heard him talking on the phone. Illya didn't, however, address the comment, and simply put his chair back under the table, giving Napoleon a curt nod.

“See you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon followed him with his gaze as he made his way to the door, watched him open it, and only finally looked away when he closed it behind himself and disappeared from view.

Napoleon sagged in his chair, thinking that, this time, Gaby had been very, very wrong to think he and Illya could even remotely like each other. He frowned deeply, and even ended up ignoring the waitress when she came over to talk to him. She seemed to have sensed that Napoleon's date had been an utter failure, and Napoleon knew that she was trying to test the waters with him, but he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to respond to her flirting – which he would probably severely regret when he'd end up in bed alone tonight.

Screw Illya Kuryakin.

 


	2. Sneaky Dates and Art Galleries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lovelies!  
> I want to apologize so much for the delay, but this particular period of my life is pretty hectic, and it turns out that, when I said I would publish the new chapter by Sunday, I severely underestimated my levels of stress and tiredness. Buuut the chapter is here now!  
> I just wanna say I'm surprised and humbled by all the amazing comments you left on my fic, and I wanna thank you all from the bottom of my heart <3 I'm so glad you're liking my story so far aaaah!!  
> I will try to write the next chapter asap!!!  
> In the meantime, enjoy this one, and for those who are familiar with Pride and Prejudice, do try to guess who's gonna be Wickham ;)

Gaby was, to put it mildly, extremely disappointed that Illya and Napoleon's date had been such a complete failure. Napoleon knew that, if she could, she would have been pestering him about it, insisting he gave it another try, but she couldn't. She had promised they didn't have to see each other again if they didn't like each other, and Napoleon was definitely going to hold her to that.

It had been two weeks since the date, and Napoleon had happily moved past it, pushing all thoughts of Illya Kuryakin and his infuriating coldness away from his mind. He would find another Russian to have hot sex with, and it was honestly just Illya's loss if he couldn't appreciate Napoleon, because all Napoleon was missing out on were rude comments and glacial stares. Napoleon, on the other hand, could have offered hot dirty talk not only in both Russian and English, but also in Italian, Spanish, German and Japanese – just to mention the languages he was fluent in. And dirty talk was not even what he did _best_ with his mouth. And Illya was just missing out on all that.

That day, Napoleon decided to go see Gaby during his lunch break, thinking that maybe they could go eat something together, but when he arrived at the auto shop, someone else was already there waiting for her.

Napoleon internally cursed when he saw Illya Kuryakin standing there, all blond hair and stupidly blue eyes – and he was wearing that horrific jacket again, of course, and this time he even had what had to be the worst hat Napoleon had ever seen in his life.

Not at all willing to have to meet the guy again, much less actually talk to him, Napoleon was just about to turn on his heels and leave, but of course, that was the exact moment when Illya decided to look up. His face did not betray any sort of emotion as his eyes fell on Napoleon, but Napoleon knew he must not be thrilled to see him again, either. Still, Illya had seen him now, and Napoleon couldn't leave anymore. He wouldn't give Illya the satisfaction to know he affected him in any way.

Napoleon put on what he knew to be an extremely irritating smile on his face, and gave Illya a nod as he walked towards him. Illya simply stared.

“Peril.”

“Cowboy.”

“So what you're doing here? Seeing Gaby?” Napoleon said, Illya's eyes on him, studying him.

“I have lunch date with her.”

“Ah. That's what I thought,” Napoleon said, nodding. “Well, then I'll just...”

“Solo? What are you doing here?”

Of _course_ Gaby had to choose that exact moment to come to the front of the shop, wiping her hands, a line of grease staining her cheek. And now she would ask him to join her and Illya, and that was pretty much the last thing Napoleon wanted.

“Gaby – hey. I came here to see if you wanted to have lunch together. But I see you're already busy, so I'll just...”

“Don't be silly, you can come with us,” Gaby said, just as predicted. And Napoleon couldn't even say no, because he didn't have a good enough excuse to refuse the invitation. “Illya doesn't mind, do you Illya?” Gaby added.

Napoleon was sure Illya did, in fact, mind, but it wasn't like he could really say that either. In fact, after a moment of hesitation, he simply shook his head.

“Well, in that case,” Napoleon said, a charming smile on his face, “I'll be happy to join you.”

“Great! Let's go then, I'm starving.”

“Wait,” Illya stopped her. “You have grease on your face Chop Shop Girl.”

 _Chop Shop Girl_.

Of course Illya would be the kind of person who gave everyone stupid nicknames. Napoleon felt really stupid to ever have thought it might be a good sign, when he had first called him Cowboy. It was silly to think he might have been special to Illya in any way – and it wasn't like he _wanted_ to be special to him, in any case! He didn't care what Illya thought about him. Why would he?

Gaby wiped the grease off her cheek, and after she had checked herself in the mirror, she followed Illya and Napoleon outside, suggesting they might go get a burger from a nearby joint.

The burger was alright, and the conversation only pleasant thanks to Gaby. Illya was still mostly quiet, and Napoleon knew that he was being considerably less chatty than usual, although he did try to keep the conversation going. Luckily, Gaby didn't seem to realize Napoleon wasn't making too much of an effort, which meant she would not be giving him a lecture about it later. She was too busy talking about her job.

Apparently, someone had brought a gorgeous 1960s Jaguar to the garage just that morning, and though Gaby had been too busy finishing up other cars, she couldn't wait to finally put her hands on it. Napoleon didn't know much about cars – fancy clothes and art were more his thing – but still knew enough to know that that was a _really_ nice car, one that you do not exactly see every day, and he could definitely see why a mechanic with a fierce passion for her job would be excited about it.

He smiled a little to himself as he listened to Gaby talking about the car, frankly failing to understand more than half of what she was going on about, but still happy to see the light in her eyes as she explained how she was going to take the car apart. Manipulative and bossy as she might be, Gaby was still his best friend, after all. If she was happy, he was happy, too.

Napoleon felt Illya's eyes on him, but did not bother looking back at him. Illya was probably just trying to kill him with the intensity of his glares alone, or something, anyway. Asshole.

Hot asshole, but still an asshole.

Lost in thought, Napoleon was distracted for a few moments, and when he tried to focus on Gaby again, she was silent, slowly shifting her gaze between him and Illya – Napoleon just _knew_ she was plotting something, and he was pretty sure he was not going to like it.

He was completely right.

“So, I just thought of something,” she said as she finished her burger, leaning on the table all business-like. “I'll go back to work, I really want to start taking that Jaguar apart as soon as possible. But Solo told me there's this amazing new exhibit at the gallery where he works, and Solo – I think you should take Illya there.”

Napoleon's mind was racing, trying to find good enough excuses to refuse to do it, and he was just about to argue that surely Illya didn't want to spend his time at some random art gallery, when that traitor, that utter traitor, turned to him and asked,

“What exhibit?”

What exhibit? _What exhibit_ ?! But that would just make Gaby think they wanted to, and would, actually spend time together! Alone! Walking around an art gallery! And that sounded more like a second date than either of them wanted. He caught a glimpse of Gaby's smug look, and he felt like yelling at Illya. Why, _why_ not lie and say he was not interested in art whatsoever? The Red Peril was really terrible at not letting himself be coerced into sneaky second dates.

Still, now the damage was done, and there was nothing Napoleon could do.

“Kandinskij,” he said reluctantly.

“He is Russian,” Illya said, and although the smile never left his face, Napoleon wanted to scream. “I want to see exhibit.”

Just peachy.

“Great!” Gaby said, giving Napoleon a small smirk as she stood. “I'll be back at the garage, then. Oh, Illya – are we still on for that party on Friday night?”

Illya met Napoleon's eyes, and Napoleon was sure they both knew what was about to happen.

“Yes, of course,” Illya said cautiously.

“Brilliant. You should come, too, Solo. There'll be lots of people, it'll be fun.”

...and there it was.

Illya and Napoleon exchanged another look.

“Cowboy is invited if he wants to come,” Illya said.

Napoleon was pretty sure his eye actually twitched.

“What a lovely idea,” he said, and if his voice was slightly higher than usual, well, it was nobody's business. He tried to think about an excuse, just any excuse, not to have to actually go, and finally, it came to him. “But unfortunately, I really can't. I have this work thing – a dinner with my-”

“The dinner is on Thursday, not Friday,” Gaby said, raising her eyebrow. “You told me the other day.”

Curse his stupidly large mouth.

“Oh. Oh, yes. You're right of course,” Napoleon said, holding back a grimace. “Well... I don't really see any reason not to... come to the party.”

Regrettably, he really didn't.

“It's settled, then. I'll see you two around,” Gaby said, walking away with a small smirk on her lips, leaving Napoleon to feel disgruntled, decidedly unhappy, and vaguely impressed with Gaby's cunning.

He sighed a little, throwing a glance at Illya, who was calmly pushing the last fry in his mouth.

“It's fine if you don't want to come to the gallery,” Napoleon said. “You don't need to pretend to be interested or anything. I get it – it can be hard to say no to Gaby at times.”

Illya looked up, and for a moment, he looked genuinely confused.

“I do want to see exhibit with Russian painter,” he said simply, raising an eyebrow at Napoleon.

Now, Napoleon had always prided himself on being a patient and adaptable man. But this? This was ridiculous. Illya had _started_ this whole thing, started it by being so blatantly unhappy about their date, by barely talking to Napoleon, by insulting him over the phone with his friend, or client, or whatever. And now he wanted to actually spend time with Napoleon? What _was_ his problem – was he just trying to give Napoleon a headache? To make his life living hell? What?

“Why Peril, so keen on actually spending time with me?” Napoleon asked, raising his eyebrow. “You do realize this is just Gaby's way to set us up on a second date, of course?”

“ _Da_ ,” Illya said, seemingly completely unperturbed. “I just want to see exhibit. I can look at paintings alone.”

“So then you can go rat out to Gaby that I left you alone?” Napoleon said, watching a frown form on Illya's brow at that.

“I am no rat.”

“Or so you say.” Napoleon sighed as he stood. “Come on, then, Peril. Let's go see these paintings.”

 

* * *

 

The walk to the art gallery was, predictably, very quiet. Napoleon could see Illya stealing a few glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but he just pretended he didn't see anything. He could only imagine Illya was feeling a bit awkward, and was glancing at Napoleon in the hope he would spark the conversation just as he had done on their date. Napoleon, however, was very much done with attempting to start a conversation just to be shut down, so he kept quiet.

It was still hard to understand why Illya had decided to follow him to the art gallery – if he was really that interested in Kandinskij, there were a few ways he could've seen the exhibit without having to suffer Napoleon's presence. They all involved _not letting Gaby know he was interested in the exhibit. Under any circumstance._

They walked into the art gallery, and Napoleon caught Illya's eye, nodding to his right to let him know that's where they were going first.

Napoleon had promised himself he would keep to himself, only talk if he was talked to first, and that he would not allow himself to actually have _fun_ on this sneaky date he had been trapped into because, good Lord, Gaby would have never let him live this down. Ever.

All of that was promptly thrown out of the window when he and Illya actually started walking down the long hallway, beautiful paintings surrounding them. Napoleon couldn't help it. Even in the company of Illya Kuryakin, he could not stop himself from talking extensively about each and every painting they saw – he couldn't _not_ stop in front of every single painting, admiring the masterful stroke, telling Illya about Kandinskij, Kandinskij who painted music, Kandinskij who flawlessly played with geometric shapes and color, Kandinskij who believed in art, in harmony, in spirituality.

Napoleon could see Illya looking at him intently, almost as if fascinated, but pushed that thought away, and convinced himself that Illya must simply be very interested in Kandinskij and his art. Kandinskij was, after all, a very fascinating artist, and Napoleon supposed even more so for a compatriot. Napoleon really loved Kandinskij's work, and he knew he was _good_ at talking about art. Knew he could get people interested even if they weren't – and considering Illya had been interested in the first place, well, Napoleon supposed that was what he was reacting to. The reason why he was suddenly actually looking at Napoleon, and without even glaring, too. It couldn't be anything else.

“I like this one,” Illya suddenly said, stopping in front of a painting, and Napoleon thought that, well, the Red Peril actually kind of had an eye for art.

“That's Composition VII,” he said, nodding to himself. “If you like Kandinskij at all, I'm not surprised you like this one. It's his absolute masterpiece, he never made more studies for any composition than he did for this one. Watercolors, drawings, sketches... over thirty of them. We have some in the next room, actually, if you want to see them. This painting is pretty much like a view into Kandinskij's mind, it gives us an insight into his philosophical ideas, his vision. I think-”

“Solo!”

Napoleon looked up at the sound of a female voice calling his name, and smiled when he saw the woman walking towards him.

“Ah, Victoria! Hello.”

“Hello. I was just wondering if you had a min-” she promptly cut herself off when she saw Illya, and Napoleon could swear that, for a split second, he saw a flash of panic in her eyes. Well, Illya _was_ sort of intimidating, what with how tall and grumpy he was.

“Oh, he's just a friend of a friend. I was giving him a tour,” Napoleon explained. “Um, Illya Kuryakin, Victoria Vinciguerra. Victoria, this is Illya.”

Illya and Victoria stared at each other for a long moment, long enough that Napoleon was debating asking them if he was missing something, or maybe suggesting they got a room. That was until Victoria talked.

“I know,” she said slowly.

Napoleon's eyes widened in surprise.

“Do you two kn-”

“I really need you in my office, Napoleon,” Victoria cut him off, tearing her eyes away from Illya.

Napoleon hesitated for a second, glancing towards Illya, who was standing there, all stiff, unmistakable hatred in his eyes.

“...of course,” he finally said. “Peril-”

“I will show myself out, Cowboy,” Illya said. “Thank you for tour. Very interesting exhibit.”

“Huh, sure, no problem,” Napoleon said, feeling confused, and slightly uncomfortable. He could just feel that there was something very wrong here.

Napoleon's eyes followed Illya as he walked out, and it was only when he had finally disappeared from view that he finally turned back, following Victoria in her office and wondering just what the hell had just happened.

 


End file.
